March 25, 1958
“Your father will be here for you within the hour, Mr. Wheeler. Please go pack your bags.” Headmaster Smithers stated the news in a flat voice.
“I don’t understand, sir,” fourteen-year-old Matthew Wheeler replied, his heart sinking into his stomach. He didn’t understand, but he did have a pretty good idea. After all, Farnsworth was the fourth prep school he had attended in in three years—and the fourth he had been forced to leave. Not to mention the hushed whispers and sidelong glances that had been following him since his older brother had mysteriously disappeared four days earlier. “Have I violated the honor code?”
“No.” The headmaster’s watery blue eyes softened, his voice taking on an apologetic note. “No, of course not, Matthew. You have been an exemplary student. This matter…it goes…well. I’m afraid your father will have to explain it to you.” He covered his mouth with his fist and cleared his throat. “I will add that I have spoken with your father about other institutions of learning for you, and I assure you that I will make sure your references are in order. Perhaps, as things stand, this will be best for you in the long run.”
Sure. Until Mitch… Matthew pushed the thought away, instead giving Headmaster Smithers a tremulous smile. “Thank you, sir,” he replied politely. “I’ll go gather my things and wait for my father.”
He threw back his shoulders, head held high as he strode out of the office and toward the dormitory. All of the other students were in class, so once he reached the landing of his floor, he let his shoulders slump. After all, there wasn’t anyone around to see him. The rumors had been flying for the last three days, so he supposed he was glad to be leaving. In his room, he made quick work of packing, pulling his suitcase out from under the single bed, and opening it up on top. His hands moved by rote, emptying his closet and drawers of their contents: shoes on the bottom; trousers, shirts and jacket next; socks, underwear and ties folded and stuffed into any gaps. He looked around the room. The linens had been supplied by the school. They could stay. He emptied his school bag of his books. They, also, belonged to Farnsworth Academy. Placing them on the desk, he emptied the three desk drawers in to his now empty bag. The small photo album his mother had given him followed. He took his student Bible and set it on top of his clothes. As he closed the lid, there was a knock on the door. Matthew snapped the lock shut and reached for the door handle. As he looked up at his father, he said, “I’m going to leave my soap and toothpaste. I have more at home.”
Henry Wheeler simply nodded. No words were needed. He reached for the suitcase and waited for Matthew to pick up his school bag. Matthew drew the door closed behind them and they walked down the stairs—a silent, and all too familiar journey.
******
The car was a bit of a surprise. Matthew had expected the Cadillac Fleetwood limousine—complete with his father’s driver and aide-de-camp, Perkins. Instead, he was looking at brand new, gleaming green 1958 Ford Thunderbird. He raised an eyebrow at his father.
“Everglade green with tan interior. Three-speed automatic. Seats four now, instead of two.” Henry shrugged. “You’ll be driving in a couple of years, son, and the color reminded me of you. It’ll be nice and broke-in by the time you’re ready.” He opened the back door and placed the suitcase on the seat. “It’s the same color as your eyes. Climb in. It’s a two- hour drive from here to Stamford, and I believe we just may need most of it for this conversation.”
“Yes, sir,” he replied, sliding into the passenger seat. The tan leather was slick and smooth, welcoming him inside.
Henry took his position in the driver’s seat and fastened his lap belt. “Buckle up, son,” he said. “Your mother insisted I add the damned things, so we’re going to use them.”
“Mom is big on safety,” Matthew quipped with a grin as he pushed the silver clip into the buckle. He sobered as his father put the car in gear and Farnsworth Academy began to shrink in the distance, a reminder that his academic life was once again in upheaval. He cast one last glance over his shoulder at the ivy-covered stone building and sighed. “What did he do this time?”
He watched his father’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, the knuckles turning white with the force he was exerting. “You’re fourteen, now, Matthew,” Henry said. “Barely, I know, but I’m sure you’re old enough to know about evil in the world.” He hesitated. “I’m not saying that your brother is evil. I don’t believe that he is. But Mitchell… he’s sick. Something in his head just isn’t right.” Matthew bit his lip, keeping in the words that wanted to gush forth. His father continued, “I know that you’ve seen it; his mood swings, the way he…”
“Zones out. Gets mean. Scary mean.” He couldn’t stop the words. “At Christmas, he was happy, and then all of a sudden, he was…he tried…” He bit down sharply on his tongue to stop himself.
“I know.” Matthew looked up at his father in shock. “Your sister told us.”
“Audrey? But we promised…”
“So she said. But she was afraid. Afraid, not just for herself, but for you and Davey as well.”
“I didn’t want you to know,” Matthew whispered.
“You didn’t want your mother and I to know that your brother chased the three of you with a butcher knife? That you hid in the attic until you saw him drive away?” The look on Henry’s face bordered on the incredulous. “Why would you keep that from us?”
“Because he’s my brother,” Matthew blurted. “He’s your son, and you love him. I love him too, when he’s not cr…” he clapped his hand over his mouth, trying to force the word back inside.
“Crazy.” Henry sighed the word. “It’s okay, son. You can say it.”
“I don’t want to,” Matthew felt the hot tears beating, unshed, behind his eyes. “I don’t want him to be crazy. I want him to be the way he used to be. I don’t want to be afraid of him; I don’t want to be ashamed of him. I really don’t want to hate him. I just want my brother back!” The tears came then, acid streams down the freckled planes of his face. His voice clogged, and he sobbed plaintively, “I just want my brother back.” As he covered his face with his hands, he felt his father’s hand on his knee, gently patting, soothing.
“I understand, son, I do.” Henry spoke softly, but Matthew could hear the pain his father was feeling. “I know that Mitch has been getting worse the last two years. I had hoped that the new doctor—the new medication was working, but…” Henry’s hand moved off of Matthew’s leg, and then he felt a handkerchief brush against his hands. “Here, Matt. Take a couple of deep breaths. It’s going to be okay. I promise.”
“Where are we going next?” he asked, using the square of white cotton to dry his cheeks and wipe his nose. “What schools are left that don’t know about Mitch’s…problems?”
Henry hesitated again, never a good sign. “I’ve hired a tutor for you. Most schools have only a few weeks left before summer break. You can finish the term at home, and we’ll get you situated for the fall. I was thinking we’ll look a little closer to home. There’s a very good school—Kent—in Connecticut. You could come home on weekends.”
“What about Mitch?” He looked down at his fingernails. Waiting.
“What did you hear?”
“Rumors,” Matthew said reluctantly. “It isn’t true, right? He didn’t… Mitch wouldn’t …he wouldn’t really kill anyone. Would he?”
“No!” Henry’s voice was strident. “Definitely not. No one is dead. But…” Another long pause. “There was a girl. Not a student, one of the girls from town—from Narragansett. He…he assaulted her.”
Acid roiled deep in his belly, churning as his father continued, “I’m just going to say it outright, Matt. Your brother attempted to force his attentions on a nineteen–year-old woman. He beat her unconscious. She didn’t die, but what he did was criminal. It was evil. I know that he was in the grip of his insanity, and I’m afraid that—and a substantial sum of money—is the only reason he isn’t in jail.”
Matthew felt his stomach lurch, bile rising up his throat. “Dad,” he croaked, his hands clenching helplessly. “Dad…please…I’m…going…”
Henry understood immediately, and he swung the car onto the shoulder of the road. Matthew clawed at his seatbelt and fumbled with the door, barely managing to tumble out before heaving the contents of his stomach along the roadside. He was kneeling in the dirt, his head pounding, his eyes streaming once again. As he rocked back and forth, he felt his father’s arms lifting him to his feet, the soft cotton of yet another handkerchief gently wiping the sick from his mouth. “I’ve got you Matty,” he heard his father whisper. “I’m here.” He leaned against the man, head resting on his chest, taking comfort in the steady rise and fall. They stood there on the side of the highway until the chill of the wind began to register. Slowly, Henry pulled away. Matthew looked up at his father, and Henry smiled sadly at him. “Let’s get back in the car where it’s warm,” he suggested. Matthew nodded, licking his lips as he climbed back inside the car. His stomach still felt shaky, and his head was now throbbing. His tongue felt thick, and his mouth tasted sour. Silently, his father reached into the glove box and pulled out a roll of Butter Rum Life Savers. He tore open the foil and unrolled the wax paper. Handing two of the golden rounds to Matthew, he said, “Here. Try and get the taste out of your mouth.”
Matthew popped the spheres into his mouth, savoring the sweetness of the candy as it countered the sour of his sick. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.
“Don’t be. My reaction was much the same.”
“Will Kent take Mitch after…?” Matthew was afraid to hear the answer, “You said… you said he isn’t in jail?”
“No, he isn’t in jail—now. Right now, he’s in Toronto, in a secured psychiatric hospital. It’s complicated, Matthew, but I’ll try to explain it. This isn’t easy for me, either, son. Please bear with me.”
“I will, Dad, but it’s just so… hard to understand.”
“I know. Believe me, I do.” Henry sighed. “You know that Mitchell has always had his mood swings.” Matthew nodded. “I’m sure you also realized that his behavior has been getting progressively worse—especially in the last two years.” Matthew nodded again. He had noticed. Despite the nearly four-year age difference, he and his brother were only three years apart in school classes. It had been hard not to notice the destruction that had followed in Mitchell Wheeler’s wake. They had been asked to leave Middlebury after Mitchell had set fire to his dorm room curtains. After Middlebury had been Amhurst, where Mitch ambushed an upperclassman over a perceived slight. Next had been Cantwell Prep and the vandalism of the school statuary—vandalism that had been witnessed by half of the faculty as Mitchell exercised his rage with crowbar stolen from the local hardware store. Farnsworth had been the latest in a string of disasters. Sherman had had his march to the sea: Mitchell had plowed through the cream of New England prep schools, dragging his younger brother behind him.
Matthew snapped back to the present, focusing on his father’s words. “We still don’t know exactly what happened. Mitch was on a date with the girl. They went to dinner and a movie, and then…well…things escalated. When she refused him, he lost all control. Fortunately, there was a good Samaritan who intervened and called the police. Mitchell was arrested. I came as soon as I received the call. Our lawyers worked very hard and were able to keep him from having to go to trial, but we had to promise to lock him away in a place where he can get the help he needs. Fortunately, we have a long trail of doctors to vouch for his… issues. That, along with a large settlement to the young woman, and the removal of any stray Wheelers from Narragansett.”
“Where…?” Matthew couldn’t make his mouth finish the sentence.
“Where is Mitchell?” his father finished. Before Matthew could do more than nod, Henry continued, “He’s in Toronto, like I said. It’s a very nice, private psychiatric facility. Your mother and Uncle Dorsey went up there with him to get him settled.”
“How long…how long will he be there? Until they…fix him? Can they fix him?”
“I don’t know, Matty. I hope so, but I just don’t know.”
“Do Audrey and Davey know?”
“Yes…and no.” Henry spared him a quick glance. “Your sister isn’t stupid—she knows something happened. All your brother knows is that your mother suddenly left on a trip. Once we get home—and your mother returns—we’ll have a more detailed discussion.” He hesitated before continuing. “Obviously, you and Audrey are old enough to hear the truth, but I fully intend to gloss over the gory details when it comes to David.”
“I wish I were Davey,” Matt muttered under his breath. His father patted his leg sympathetically but didn’t respond verbally. Matthew closed his eyes and leaned into the seat. He had a lot to process.
******
“Matt, wake up son. We’re almost home.”
Matthew was startled from his doze by the sound of his father’s voice. Blinking rapidly to clear his vision, he looked out on the familiar sights of his home. As his father pulled through the ornate iron gate, he could see the stone manor rising tall above the 125-acre estate, its aged earth-toned heights topped with bright red roof tiles. Five brick chimneys soared even higher into the misty cloud cover, four of the five sending tendrils drifting up into the gray. His father parked the Thunderbird in front of the walkway. “Would you like to put her away, son?” he asked.
“Seriously?” Matthew couldn’t believe his ears. “But…but, it’s new.”
“I bought her for you, Matt my boy.” Henry ran a hand through his salt sprinkled hair. “You can’t drive her legally for a while, but practice makes perfect. What do you say?”
“Yes! I say, yes. Please and thank you, yes!” All traces of sleepiness were gone, replaced with excitement. “What do I do first?”
“First,” Henry told him, “you slide on over into the driver’s seat. I’ll go around.” He opened his door and stepped around the car, waiting as Matthew clambered over the center console, thrusting his long legs under the steering wheel. His feet didn’t quite reach. “Move the seat up a bit,” Henry suggested, “and make sure you keep one foot on the brake. Then, put the car in drive and ease off the brake until she moves forward.”
Matthew gnawed slightly on the inside of his lip as he adjusted the seat, concentrating on the task at hand. He knew that it was less than thirty yards to the garage, but he was a quivering ball of nervous excitement at the prospect of actually driving the car. With deceptively steady hands he adjusted the rearview mirror and shot his father a sheepish grin and suggested, “Maybe we should wear our seatbelts.”
Henry quirked an eyebrow and clipped on his belt. Matthew followed suit, and, taking a deep breath, slid the car into gear. It lurched forward, and he quickly slammed his foot down on the brake. “Easy,” his father said, his voice calm. “Just take it slow and easy, son.”
“Sorry, Dad. I forgot.” Matthew felt his face flame. “I guess it was a good idea to buckle up, huh?”
“No harm done,” was the response, “just ease up on the brake and let her coast. If you need to accelerate, just press down slowly on the gas pedal.”
“Yes, sir,” Matthew mumbled, focusing on the task at hand. This time, he moved his foot slowly, and the car rolled forward, the natural incline of the driveway giving it an assist. Sitting tall in the seat he turned the wheel and ever so slightly pressed on the accelerator. The garage loomed in front of him, and thankfully, the bay door was open. He aimed the car toward the opening and looked at his father.
“Slowly,” Henry told him. “It’s fairly level. Just point the front of the car at the back of the wall and give it a little gas – just a little. Coast it in and then brake.”
He followed the directions to the letter, his foot adding subtle pressure to the gas pedal as the car inched forward toward its place in the garage. He didn’t even realize he was holding his breath until he brought the Thunderbird to a full stop three feet away from the back wall.
“Good,” Henry told him. “Now, put it in park and turn off the car.”
Matthew did as he was told, sliding the key out of the ignition. He felt the huge smile break across his face as he turned to face his father, the key dangling from his pointer finger. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like smiling; it had been weeks, if not months. “That was great, Dad,” he enthused. “Thanks! I drove the car. I actually drove the car!”
“And you did it very well, son,” Henry agreed, adding, “Do me a favor though. Don’t mention it to your mother. This is between us, deal?”
The smile wavered a little as Matthew processed the request. “I guess I shouldn’t say anything to Audrey or Davey then. His face brightened. “Dad, can I tell the guys at my new school? Please?”
“Of course,” Henry said with a chuckle. “And, once I have the chance to discuss driving lessons with your mother, we should be fine. It’s just that your mother–not unlike the car– needs to be eased into the idea.”
He had to laugh at the comparison. Laughing felt good, too. As Matthew climbed out of the car and reclaimed his suitcase from the trunk, he realized that he felt lighter. Although he was concerned about Mitchell, for the first time in a while he felt safe. He loved his big brother, but, knowing that he was locked away was a bit of a relief. He felt a bit guilty for the relief, but he’d been shouldering the burden of his brother’s irregular behavior for the better part of two years. Whatever the immediate future held in store, he was safe and at home for the present, and that felt really, really good. Following his father into the covered breezeway that connected the garage to the house, Matthew asked, “Speaking of Mom, when do you think she’ll be home?”
“Friday,” was the reply. Henry stopped at the mud room door. “Your mother will be home on Friday. The tutor we’ve hired–Mr. Harmon–will be here tomorrow, and I think we’ll try and get to Kent for a tour sometime next week.”
“Could I maybe have another driving lesson before Mom gets back?”
Henry chuckled. “I think we might be able to arrange something. After all, your brother and sister are still attending school.”
They entered the mud room and continued on through the solarium and into the kitchen. Something was definitely cooking. Cookies, he thought. The room was warm, the air redolent with the aromas of cinnamon and vanilla from whatever sweet was baking in the large oven positioned in the arch of what had once been the kitchen fireplace. That would be the fifth chimney; the one that emitted no smoke. When his grandmother had remodeled the kitchen shortly after the end of World War I, she had made the decision to replace the never-used kitchen fireplace with an actual stove and oven. She still claimed that it lent an ‘air of authenticity’ to the house, while making the kitchen far more functional. Matthew had little interest in the authenticity of his historical home. All he knew was that the smells coming from the kitchen reminded him that he had slept through any chance of lunch after spewing his breakfast all over the highway. His stomach grumbled.
“Oh! Mr. Wheeler. Master Matthew. Welcome home! I didn’t hear you come in.” Mrs. Rachel O’Leary, affectionately known as “Cooky”, came bustling into the room. “I’m about to put the chicken in the oven, so we should be ready to serve dinner promptly at six. Miss Audrey is at dance class, and Mrs. Fisher sent Rogers to pick up young David from school. He’ll pick Miss Audrey up from class as well. I expect them home by four-thirty.” Matthew’s stomach growled again, catching the cook’s attention. “I know that sound,” she said jovially. “Growing boys, you know. Why don’t you take your bag up to your room and change out of your school clothes? The cookies should be ready by then.” Her eyes twinkled. “Snickerdoodles, warm from the oven. Now scat!”
Matthew moved to comply, but not before throwing his arms around the cook’s comfortable middle and giving her a squeeze. Despite the situation, it was good to be home. He grabbed his suitcase and raced up the stairs. There were eight bedrooms on the second floor. Five belonged to the residents of the house, while the other three were used for visiting family and the occasional guest. The three older Wheeler children resided in the east wing, while their parents and young David occupied the west wing. Matthew opened up the door to his room and took a deep, satisfying breath. Mrs. Fisher had made sure his room was waiting for him, clean and welcoming. It took him less than ten minutes to unpack his bag, making sure his clothing was put away correctly—his mother was a stickler about not making excess work for the staff. Standing at the sink in the bathroom he shared with his brother, Matthew cast a glance at the door that led into Mitchell’s room. Drawn to the door, his hand hesitated for a second, maybe two. Another parental dictate was respect for each other’s personal space. Still… He opened the door and peered in. The room was dark and cold, despite Mitch’s preferred red color scheme. There’s no life in this room, Matthew thought to himself. It’s like Mitch has disappeared. He closed the door and turned the lock. In his heart, he knew that his brother had been in the process of disappearing for the better part of the last three years. The honesty in his thoughts—along with the relief he felt at not having his brother next door—made him feel both sad and guilty. He loved his family. Loved his sister and brothers, but Mitchell… Haunted emerald green eyes gazed back at him from the mirror. He closed his eyes and took a deep ragged breath. Shaking himself, he pushed the bad feelings aside. What was done, was done. Soon Audrey and Davey would be home, and there were cookies waiting in the kitchen. Matthew would concentrate on the positives and put the negatives aside. It was the only rational and sensible way. He flicked off the bathroom light and headed back to the kitchen.
******
“Matty!”
Matthew looked up from the book he was reading just in time to see the whirlwind that was his younger brother burst into the room.
“Davey!” he teased back, mimicking his little brother’s tone. His book tumbled to the chair as fifty pounds of eight-year-old boy landed on his lap.
“Why are you home? I’m glad you’re home, but why? Is school out? How come? Mine isn’t. That’s not fair.”
The words tumbled out, tinged with a combination of excitement and concern. Matthew was spared answering, though, as another voice entered the fray. “He’s going to finish the year here, Davey. Daddy told us that.”
“But why?” the little boy asked, his blue-eyes wide. He lowered his voice. “Did you get kicked out of school like Mitch?”
Matthew managed a smile. “No,” he told his brother. “I’m just too smart for my class, so the headmaster thought I’d do better at a new school. It’s too late to start now, though, so I’m going to finish up at home and start Kent in the fall.” He ignored Audrey’s snort. “I’m glad you’re home,” he said. “Did you know that Cooky made snickerdoodles? She only let me have two. She said I had to wait for you and Auds to get home.”
“Cookies?” Davey was on his feet again, tugging at Matthew’s hand. “C’mon Matty,” he demanded. “My tummy’s grumbling.”
Matthew let Davy pull him from the sofa. As they crossed the doorway, he held out his free hand to his sister. “Coming, sis?” he asked. She didn’t answer but eyes a shade lighter green than his twinkled as she took his hand. With young David tugging them along, they made their way back to the comfort of kitchen.
******
After dinner, Henry gathered his children in his den. In simple terms, he explained the situation first to his youngest child. Davey sat on his father’s lap, his face intent as Henry told him that Mitchell was going to live in Canada for the foreseeable future.
“Is he going to school there?” Davey asked.
“It’s more like a hospital,” his father explained, “but he’ll still have lessons.”
“He’s at the hospital because he’s sick?”
“Yes.” Henry sighed. “Yes, my boy, Mitchell is sick, but we all hope that he’ll get better at this hospital.”
“Am I going to get sick like Mitch?” Davey asked, his eyes wide and fearful.
“No.” The answer was swift and sure. “What Mitchell has isn’t contagious like a cold or the measles. It’s… not. You are fine.”
“Will he come home?”
“I hope so.” Henry hugged the little boy close. “I hope with all my heart that the doctors can heal your brother, and he can come back to us.”
Davey gnawed on a fingernail. “Mitch is scary when he’s sick.”
“I know.” Henry gave him another hug. “Now, young man, it’s time for you to go get ready for bed. Your mother will be home on Friday, and she’ll have my head if I let you stay up past bed time. Go find Miss Campbell.”
“I will,” the little boy promised, sliding off his father’s lap. “I’ll brush my teeth, too. I promise. Goodnight, Daddy.”
“Goodnight, son,” Henry said, dropping a kiss on the little boy’s forehead. “I’ll check in on you in a short while. Off to bed.”
As soon as the youngest family member was out of the room, Audrey asked, “How much of that was true?”
“All of it,” Henry assured her. “Your brother is in Toronto, in a psychiatric hospital. I am hoping and praying that the doctors there will be able to help him.” He sighed. “Audrey, Mitchell committed a criminal act. An act even worse than what he attempted to do to you and your brothers last Christmas.” He rubbed his temples with his fingertips. “I tell myself that he wouldn’t have really hurt you, but I don’t know if I’m lying to myself or not. What I do know is that he hurt someone else, and he can’t be trusted out in the world. Not right now. Maybe never. Fortunately, we have documented evidence of his...illness and treatment. Without that, I don’t think we could have kept him out of prison.” He leaned forward, his expression intent and honest. “I love Mitchell, just as I love you both and David. I won’t sit back and let anyone hurt you—any of you. This is what is best for Mitchell, as well as the rest of us.”
“I’m glad.” Audrey raised her chin. “I’m glad he’s gone. I hope he gets better, Daddy. Really, I do, but I’m glad he isn’t here. I’m glad I don’t have to worry about making him go nuts for no reason, and I’ll bet Matt is looking forward to going to school and not having people avoiding him because of his crazy brother.” Tears started to run down her face. “I know I’m horrible, but I’m not sorry. I don’t want Mitch around. Not the way he’s been the last few years.”
Matt squeezed his sister’s hand in sympathy, and if he had to admit it, agreeance. Their father rose and moved across the rug, falling to his knees in front of them and pulling both into his arms. “You aren’t horrible, Audrey. You’re being honest, and I appreciate that. I know that you and Matty love Mitch. I know watching him decline has been frightening and horrifying for you both. It has been for your mother and I as well. We all hope that Mitchell can be...fixed, I believe Matty said. We want the boy we loved back. There’s nothing wrong with feeling that was, sweetheart.”
Matthew felt tears on his own cheeks, mingling with his sister’s tears as the two of them soaked the front of their father’s shirt, sharing both grief and relief.
*****
Later that night, snug in his bed, a fearsome thought sprouted in Matthew’s brain. Mitch had started to get crazy and mean when he was half way between fourteen and fifteen. Matthew was fourteen and two months. Mitchell was his brother. Despite his father’s assertion that Mitchell’s illness wasn’t contagious, Matthew knew that mental illness ran in families. Would he, too, lose his mind in the next few months?
*****
Matt & Win
Author’s Notes
If you’ve read this far, I thank you. I know I’ve been a bit absent from the writing scene lately. Sometimes life gets away from me. Not to mention the fact that my website sorely needs updating. Maybe someday. Fingers crossed.
I am still writing. I currently have five different stories going, and will hopefully tie some of them up and actually get them posted. Again, fingers crossed.
So, let me take this opportunity to thank all of you for reading my musings and encouraging me to keep writing. Jixemitri means the world to me. I am proud and grateful to be a part of it.
